


in their clothes of many colors

by commacomma



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Fire Nation (Avatar), Fire Nation Royal Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lots of Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Parent Death, Racism, Slow Burn, azula is not so bad, katara and sokka are taken in the raid as children, no team avatar, not avatar centric, sorry aang, theyre raised in the fire nation, toph is also there, u know a fella must self project
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23557990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commacomma/pseuds/commacomma
Summary: he came dancing across the waterwith his galleons and gunslooking for the new worldin that palace in the sun
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 78





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> title and summary are from Cortez the Killer by Neil Young. this is just for fun so the new chapters may be a little inconsistent :v  
> its a whole story about how much i hate ozai basically and then zuko and sokka fall in love

When Zuko turned ten, his father did not attend his birthday ceremony, or the family dinner that followed. He had been away for three weeks. In their nightly letters, which Zuko suspected were never actually read, he forgave his father for it without a thought. 

“He would be here, if he could,” his mother promised. Her eyes had lost their light years after the children were born, though her voice retained its silk. “Once he has fulfilled his duties, he can make it up to you.”

At such a young age, Zuko did not know enough about his father not to believe it. He collected the days as they passed and counted them over many times. Months engulfed weeks, and he began to fear whether or not his father would ever return from the South Pole.

Azula insisted that Father had to remain until the last flag was burnt. If he allowed any of the water benders to survive, there would later be a bloodbath like the Northern Rebellion so many years ago. (Zuko nodded his head and agreed with his sister, though the history lessons that their governess gave them had never interested him, and he knew little of the Water Tribes.) It overstretched his nerves, that his father and uncle were both away for so long. He had grown impatient for their return, hesitant to seek the company of his sister yet unwilling to roam corridors by himself. Their mother had headaches frequently and spent long stretches of time resting in her bed. Even Lu Ten could not write. His commander had sent him on his third tour of Ba Sing Se weeks ago.

In that time, Zuko was able to tolerate Azula more than ever. Cruel and unusually aware of herself, his baby sister’s mean spirit was fuelled by their father. When he was away, she could almost be kind. As icy her demeanor and stinging her comments, she was the same sister that crawled into Zuko’s bed in tears when she heard lightning at her window. 

“It's not from the sky,” she told him once, with the covers nearly pulled up to her eyes.

(How that would change through the years, and someday come back for the pair. Azula did not know then that she was destined to put the fear of lightning into her brother when they were much older.)

By the third month, Azula had even resigned herself to practicing bending with him. She scolded his mistakes bitterly, though not with the same scald as she did during tournaments, and even corrected his hand position throughout various stances.

“Do you  _ know _ why it's called the Lotus technique?” She demanded. Her back was as straight as the boards they practiced their kicks on, voice as commanding as their appointed instructor, Tai Ran. “You'd think Uncle would have told his favorite.”

Just sometimes, Zuko wondered if she was jealous. If watching her brother and Lu Ten and Iroh despaired her the way it anguished Zuko to see her crooned over by their father. 

“The strength of the fire does not come from it,” she recites, an official air to her voice, “But from the bender. Hold your hand as though there is a lotus flower inside. Don't let your fingers crush a single petal.” 

Zuko allowed his fingers to curl into his palm and loosened his knuckles. He had always found lotus flowers beautiful. Wherever it was that Uncle Iroh went for so long, he always returned with flowers for Zuko’s mother. Azula once speculated that he was sorry for her, because their father never thought to pick her any. Zuko knew that their uncle was kind enough to bring presents to a friend in poor spirits. Always, a single lotus blossom dotted the center of a wild mix of flowers taken from border over border. Uncle traveled a great many places and told stories of each one with enough spirit to light the room. Even Azula couldn't tune out sometimes, and laughing with her was a rare and treasured occasion. 

In an instant, there was a burst from Zuko’s hand, unexpected but controlled enough not to curl at his face. He felt it in his chest. The flames petaled and then he charged them at the wooden target across their training yard. 

Azula was stunned, as though she had intended to berate him rather than help and was surprised with his success. She looked unsure of her own words, and carefully selected them in order to avoid a compliment. It mattered none to Zuko; his sister had helped him. The pulse of heat in his hands did not vanish, and as they continued their drills, it did not dampen.

Four months and two weeks after Ozai had departed for the South Pole, the beak of a searaven steered his ship back into port. Zuko was informed that the brigade had returned by the governess, who promptly ordered both him and Azula to change out of their play clothes and into respectable dress. They would accompany their father to the Firelord’s chamber, where they would hear firsthand the last accounts of the Southern Water Tribe.  _ History in the making _ , Tai Ran gushed to the children, earning a snicker from Azula,  _ What a fine scroll shall tell that tale. _

After finishing their breakfasts, Zuko and Azula separated. He bid a silent farewell to the sister that had kept him company in his father’s absence and prepared for the usual torment to resume. Then, he took care in preparing himself for the meeting, tying his hair tightly and thoroughly checking his sleeves for stains (once, a spot of brown sauce had been noticed on his left cuff, and he had still not yet heard the last of it from his mother). The beating of drums could faintly be heard if he stood by his window. The pointed masts of the searaven fleet punctured the sky in the distance. 

At his father’s left side, Zuko smiled, talked, and stood just like him. He heard an advisor once remark that separated, Ozai and his son bore no resemblance to one another. The case was the same for Azula. There was a sharp sense in the air when their father was near, not only that he could see any misplaced step, but that he was waiting for one. 

Like mirrors angled behind him, the children reflected his entrance into the Firelord’s hall. The chamber was already silent, the ears and eyes of its assembly restless for the news bound to come. Looking upon the kneeling figures outlining the Fire Throne, Zuko noticed that Uncle Iroh still had not returned. 

They were seated and paid homage to their Firelord. The formalities of a meeting required a long, drawn out introduction. The secretary could be seen boredly sketching a likeness of the woman seated across from her with an ink brush. 

Finally, Ozai was called upon. In his brother’s place, he stood, and with great satisfaction delivered the news. “All waterbenders in the Southern Water Tribe have been neutralized. Those remaining have been stripped of defense and are now compliant, within our control. The Water Tribes are no more.”

Zuko heard these words, and saw them written at a furious speed. It did not dawn on him then that  _ neutralizing _ someone was a diplomatic term for a grave fate. It also did not occur to him that his presence in the room would be recorded in historical texts throughout the world.

The council stood and roared with applause. Firelord Azulon stroked his beard in deep thought, as though poking a fire with hot iron. “This is good news indeed, Admiral Ozai. And our conquest for the Earth Kingdom?”

Ozai’s contented grin faltered, but he remained full voiced and proud. “Omashu is falling into line. A peasant rebellion was evaded and the culprits were made exemplary. Ba Sing Se cannot hold much longer. A political faction within has reasoned with our cause.” 

The Firelord was sated temporarily, Zuko could tell. His grandfather never did look wholly pleased with anyone or anything. He addressed other matters, trivial in the shadow of Ozai’s glittering news, and dismissed the reception without further assignment. 

Once they passed the guards at the entrance to the Firelord’s chamber, they swept into the corridor that led them home. They did not live in the palace itself, but in a grand house that existed in its shadow. 

The children were finally able to speak to their father. “How was your journey?” Azula asked eagerly. 

“Were you not paying attention at the meeting?” Father responded coolly, not sparing a glance at her. Zuko focused on keeping his brisk pace. “The mission was well. But I have more to attend to. Is your mother out of bed today?”

Both were quiet. Zuko knew only by chance that Azula had been to see their mother in the morning. He was reaching for the handle himself on the sliding door when Azula drew it open and pushed past him, darting down the hall without a word.

Their father developed his own conclusion from the silence. “I see. Well, I have just the thing for her. A surprise for you all. Wait in her studio once we reach the house, I’ll wake her.” 

Zuko’s heart matched the distant drums as they picked their way along a stone path to the house. Azula continued to roll questions upon their father, but he could not help imagining the surprise. His naive gut latched onto a final theory: his late birthday present. His father knew he had missed Zuko’s birthday and brought home something wonderful to make up for it. Earth Kingdom weapons, or relics from the South Pole, or a beautiful painting to make his mother smile. 

Once their door opened, he and Azula ran obediently to their places in the drawing room. 

Minutes passed. First one or two, then ten, then fifteen. The siblings were forced back into reality, and understood the lengths it took to rouse their mother from her rest. They took to a game of checkers at their small table on the floor to pass the time. Zuko’s stomach turned anxiously, giddy for the mystery their father had in store for them. 

  
  


“I brought you back a souvenir,” boomed the Admiral, filling their drawing room with his deep voice. “I found them huddled in a salmon barrel, clever little things.”

Zuko and Azula busied themselves quickly with their round of checkers. If they had not been dismissed already, they were always eager to see their parents together, and remained quiet to avoid being sent to their rooms. Azula took one of her brother’s blue pegs between her fingers and replaced it with her own orange one. 

“Ozai,” Ursa gasped, and just for a fraction of a second, she looked angry. But her husband was not a man to be angry with. “They're  _ children _ , my love,” she continued quickly, in an airy, strained voice, “Surely the refugee camps can fit them, or they can be taken--”

“I brought them here,” Ozai snapped. Zuko looked quickly down, breath hitching involuntarily at the raise in his father's voice. A wooden slam and the clatter of clay pots rattled three sets of bones. “And I did it for you,  _ my love _ . I thought it might please you to look after them. You did so grieve for the loss of our third child; perhaps caring for these poor things will help you to recover.” He paused, looked at her pointedly. “Though, I suppose, there's room enough in the servants’ quarters for two more, and always coal to be shovelled…”

The lead in his voice told Ursa what she needed to know. These Water Tribe babies stolen away from their family were her punishment. She would have to look them in the eyes for the remainder of her days knowing what had been done to bring them here. Ozai did not rescue them out of mercy, and would likely see them shipped away to the floating camps at the snap of a finger if she refused. 

So she said, “Very well, my dear, very well,” and she laughed. Her smile was as painted as her ornate eyelids. And for good measure, she sold it. “Perhaps we can bring them up properly. The poor dears have lived so misguided, so far away from our civil times.”

Ozai was finally satisfied with her resignation. “ _ There _ . I knew you would see the reason. I’ll send them in.”

He turned on his heel and left her there. Ursa felt she could scream, but bit her lip for her children, and for the children about to enter her care. She  _ would _ care for them, she resolved easily, for she could not bear cruelty upon their innocence. She would spite him by giving them a life.

Ozai did not escort them, nor point them in the direction of their new caretaker. Two glistening children trudged through the doors, slow in their pace, bundled in brilliant blue coats. The color matched their eyes, which darted from Ursa to Zuko and Azula, then to each other. As Ursa made a move toward them, the taller one jutted forward like a mother bear, in front of the younger child behind them. A split piece of wood speared out of their sleeve and they brandished it like a saber. For such a young warrior, the stance was sturdy and impressive. Ursa felt a new smile molt from the painted one.

“I won't take that from you, if you’d like to keep it, she said gently, “But I prefer no weapons raised in my place of art.”

She could feel the room heat up, and knew her own children were making their judgements. They were disciplined enough to remain quiet. So did the two strangers before her.

She continued. “My, my, what fine coats,” she showed her palms to be empty, and then held one out. “But for colder weather, I think. You must be roasting. Can I take them for you?”

The tall one lowered their plank, but remained stiffly blocking Ursa from the other. They leaned back to listen closely to a soft whisper, and then nodded. With a look as though they were backed into the corner, they dropped the driftwood and heaved the coat from their shoulders. The boy had hard eyes, recently hardened, and the girl’s behind him were wide and afraid. They had long hair beneath their hoods, matted with sweat, and shining brown faces flushed red by the heat. 

Ursa noticed them both flinch as she reached for the coats, but took them as carefully as she could and hung them over her arm. She could feel warmth still radiating from the wrap of finely cured furs. She yearned to promise them that their belongings would be kept safe.

“May I know your names?” She asked. When they refused to respond, she did not press them. “Mine is Ursa. At the table there are my children. On the right, my son, Zuko. On the left, my daughter, Azula.”

“ _ I’m _ going to find father,” Azula declared. Ursa had neither the patience nor the will to restrain her, knowing deeply her daughter’s independence. She had been a hardheaded girl in her own youth, after all. 

When the door was shut again, Ursa looked to Zuko. He had preoccupied himself with clearing the checkerboard, presumably to avoid what his mother was handling in that moment. It was all so sudden that she was unable to consider what she would tell her children. How she would prepare them to treat these different people with kindness, much unlike the culture that their private life drilled into them. How she would now protect four, instead of two, from the creeping wrath of her husband, all while the notion of saving herself faded. 

“Zuko,” she called, motioning him over with her free arm. The new faces shifted uneasily before her. “Come here, they deserve a proper greeting. Don't be shy, darling.”

Her boy was softer at the edges, which at least she could count upon in confidence. It was endearing and distressing all at once. He stood from the table and made his way to her in an unsure pace. 

“Hello,” he said, halfway hidden behind his mother. Ursa gave her son an encouraging pat on the back, coaxing him out of her shadow, and he stepped forward. He looked puzzled for a moment, grasping for words, before shooting his arm out as quickly as a fireburst, face red. “Do you shake hands in the South Pole?”

The little girl nodded, and reached out to meet his fingertips. Ursa understood that children could exchange trust with each other far more easily than with adults. Once their hands released, Zuko offered his to the boy, as well, and it was accepted. 

“Your necklace is beautiful,” Zuko blurted, pointing to the girl’s neck. Her hands flew to cover the gleaming stone as though he would pluck it off of her if he saw it again. Then he directed his finger at the boy, and added, “Your fighting stance looks strong. Um, but please don't fight my mom.”

Ursa’s heart was glowing with pride in her chest. She remembered, just a week prior, teaching him the importance of manners with strangers.  _ The best way to greet a stranger, _ she told him,  _ is with a compliment. Kind words can change quite big things, sometimes. _ And he had held her words, had put them to work, even if his execution was quite awkward.

“I’m Katara,” the girl offered timidly. Her hands still protected her neck, but she felt herself safe enough to speak. “That's Sokka, my brother.”

“Who was that man?” Sokka finally asked. In his voice, Ursa could hear that he had heart from mukluks to wolftail. His feet were still planted firmly in front of his sister. 

“That was my husband,” said Ursa. She didn't miss the soft gasp and furrowed brow of Katara. “Zuko and Azula’s father, Admiral Ozai. He has allowed for you both to stay with us, here in our home. But he is very busy with his duties, and in turn I will be the one to look after you.”

The ice in Sokka’s eyes broke. He visibly wilted. “We aren’t going home?”

“He said he’d take us to our mother,” Katara recalled. Ursa felt something wrench in her chest that nearly brought her to her knees.

Ozai had indeed made her pay. 

  
  
  
  
  


The adoption of foreign children was not unheard of within the Fire Nation’s courts. Several rehabilitation institutions existed under the command of one of Firelord Azulon’s advisors. When children were spared, they were placed in the jurisdiction of these facilities. The occasional couple struggling with fertility would be chosen to house and raise children when the boarding schools became overcrowded, as they tended to every harvest season. 

It was extremely unusual, however, that any of these children came from the Poles. Even less likely that guardianship would be assumed by the son of the Firelord himself. News of Sokka and Katara’s arrival flew as if by wind. Ursa received letter after letter from the inner circle of military wives.

_ How heartwarming _ , some expressed,  _ how kind and gracious of Ozai. What a modern age it is, raising two tribals as if your own! _

Opinions weren't all so ignorantly, rudely approving.  _ They will never be like your own, will they, _ wrote one neighbor,  _ Really, is this any way to cope? _

The rest of the letters did not survive long, after that. Clutched in a small stack in her hand as she read, they were squeezed into ash in a blink. Satisfied, she allowed the remains to fall into the grass and dusted her hands clean of the matter. 

Katara and Sokka were seated in a patch of sunlight, speaking so lowly that they could scarcely be heard. Ursa suspected every so often that she was hearing the mutterings of an older, deeper language than commonspeak. They hadn't looked at her since the night prior.

_ “I don't know where your mother is, but I’m afraid that she can’t come away from there yet,” Ursa responded meekly. She had little faith in her own words. “In the morning I can--” _

_ “We want to go home  _ now,” _ Sokka pleaded. His and his sister’s hands were clasped tightly at his waist. “We can’t live here. It's too hot. We have to help Gran Gran at home.” _

_ It couldn't be up to a child to ease the circumstances. Ursa fiercely reminded herself of the expectations she needed to meet. “Sokka, please, listen. It's much too late to find the answers tonight. I know you’ve come a long way, and made a very hard trip. I can have a bath prepared for each of you, and a hot meal, if you aren't too tired. It’s close to bedtime.”  _

_ As they listened, she watched their faces grow resentful. She became another who had taken them away from their lives. Even to care for them now was to push them into vile assimilation. Before folding them into red blankets in the guest parlor, Ursa helped them wipe the dust, ash, and sweat of their homeland from existence. _

Azula and Zuko’s ponytails curled to the breeze across their small courtyard. Their governess preferred to give them lessons in the shade of a tall roof. The personal meadow was large enough that the three pods (Sokka and Katara, the children and their teacher, and Ursa, alone) could occupy their own areas without disturbance. Before Ozai’s temper had given out, he designed the whole beautiful thing just for Ursa. Peace lilies grew in fine lines along the walls of the house. The windows were tall and streamed daylight into their halls freely. Her tea garden was enclosed in a small wooden fence in one corner of the field. 

Ozai had given her no instructions for Sokka and Katara’s integration. All he would tell her that night, in their bed, was that they would be brought up as proper charges of the family. That meant lessons, training, ceremonies, education. He wanted to make Fire Nation Pride of them. 

“Zuko!”

The familiar sound yanked Ursa by the ankle back down into her body. Tai Ran’s loomed with her hands on her hips, calling to her pupil, who was barrelling away from her with an armload of supplies. Azula giggled and stayed in her seat. 

“Zuko!” Huffed Tai Ran, throwing Ursa a heated look. “Come back here and finish your work! Your ink is going to dry out!”

But Zuko was determined in whatever it was he was doing. Ursa could now see what he had made off with: a slab of blank sheets, a wooden block to draw on, various brushes and small implements tucked between his fingers, his other hand struggling to keep the bundle together. He dropped a corked ink bottle twice and drooped precariously to gather it back up before stopping in front of Sokka and Katara.

Ursa ached privately at the sight. She felt herself an insufficient mother, both for what she had done and what she knew she could never do. Azula needed her more than ever, and yet avoided her with a ten foot pole in favor of her father. It frustrated Ursa, and she shamed herself accordingly, for she knew it was her own doing. Zuko, her sweetheart, who she selfishly raised to be so kind, would be left to fit into a life that would never allow him. 

Katara and Sokka complicated this further. Ursa could not bear to think of what would happen to them. Did they have a life beyond her own? Was Ozai going to throw them onto a boat to nowhere as soon as she was gone?

She looked on as Zuko took it upon himself to set up the drawing frame. He was speaking, though Ursa couldn't make any words from it. Once a paper was spread and weighted down, he stayed to show Sokka and Katara how to hold the brushes and mix the ink. Shaking her head, Tai Ran turned away and returned her attention to Azula. 

It was no question to her that Zuko would take the new children under his wing. He was a withdrawn kid, but a curious one. But she could see it, almost a premonition: Zuko caring for them too much, maybe even falling in love as they grew older, then Ozai stripping it all away. Trapped in the same neverending bloodline that was crushing Ursa.

A peace lily drooped from behind her and touched her shoulder. The white cup of its blossom was pure. She took it by the stem and yanked its roots loose of the earth, dropping the wilted thing once it was pulled free. 

Katara and Sokka were fitted for their new clothes after they were served breakfast. Ozai’s tailor took their measurements for the finer garments and then allowed the two to rifle through the options for their daily attire. As Katara held a plain dress of warm sienna to herself, she smoothed the creases of her own dirty kuspuk, thumbing the white edge of her pocket with a faraway look.

“Well, you know, of course the color would give anyone a headache,” started their stylist offhandedly. Ursa prepared for an unbearable bashing of foreign dress, but she continued, “But I always thought you Water Tribe lilies were so pretty. I’ve studied fashions from all the nations, see,” and she dragged on with a long story of her travels in the trade of design. 

Ursa set her hand on Katara’s shoulder. “When you change, leave them behind the screen. I’ll try to put them somewhere safe,” she said, tapping the fur boots that were placed on the changing table with her off hand. “I have your parkas hidden.” 

Katara’s eyes widened and she nodded. She seemed to understand that it was a private deal she was making. After choosing a few more garments that the tailor, still fully engaged in her dissenting opinion of Ember Island’s Fashion Week, approved of and sized accordingly, Katara disappeared behind a dressing screen. 

“--I mean, seriously,  _ gauze ribbon _ ? A gauze ribbon trim on a dress?” Snorted the tailor, shaking her head at Ursa. When she realized the children were both gone, she leaned closer. “It's a sweet thing, you know, letting her dress up and play royal. I hear the tribes don't even  _ have _ princesses. The people are all so common.”

Iroh would tell her to bite her tongue, but Ursa’s face grew hot. “Is that so?” She asked, voice dripping venom. The tailor’s face dropped and she averted her eyes, sensing she had overstepped. 

“I-- I didn’t mean--”

If not for Sokka reappearing, newly dressed, she may have allowed quite an indisposition. One thing that her and Ozai would always have in common, even as their marriage thinned before their eyes, was their ability to strike fear together.

“I don't want to wear these,” he told them both, staring down as he spoke. His hands were balled in the red sleeves of his shirt. 

“Oh, but you look so handsome.” Ursa’s instinct to coddle replaced her fury. She beckoned him closer with one hand and then reached for his collar to finish buttoning it. Then she combed a hand through his hair, which had been freed from a small ponytail and still vaguely held the shape. “Can I put that hair up for you?”

“The ribbon broke,” he admitted quietly. In his hand, she could see the strip of blue clutched tightly. She let him have it.

“Did you know, there’s no ribbon holding mine up?” She tapped the hairpiece that kept her bun intact. He watched with curious eyes, but a furrowed brow. “There’s a pin in it. May I show you?”

Patiently, she waited for his permission and then bowed her head slightly. She pulled the thin brass piece from her headdress and took the plate carefully, letting it fall loose upon her shoulders. Her hair was straight and black as a burnt arrow, much unlike the brown bush on Sokka’s head, and with an encouraging nod she allowed him to run his fingers through it.

“Long hair is a tradition here, a symbol of your honor,” she explained. The information seemed to register with him. “When your hair is very long, it proves how much growing you’ve done.”

She watched the spark of intrigue crack and then fade. He was still wary of her, and showed his reservations plainly. The tailor procured a black ribbon for him as a substitute for the pin, because his hair was too short to pull into a bun.

As Sokka was folding his clothes - mostly black, avoiding the bright colors as little as possible, Ursa noticed - Katara reappeared in her clean outfit. She had settled on a pair of black pants and a buttoned shirt of red cotton. Her sleeves were pushed up past her elbows. Neither could have acclimated to the heat in such a short time span. Her neck was bare, and Ursa made a note to look through her jewelry box to find her a substitute, hoping it may comfort her.

“Hm, I think she’s got a little too much hair for a pin,” the stylist decided. Katara’s hair beads had disappeared, and her braid was released into thick brown waves that had formed from the plait. “A ponytail would still be cute, to keep your hair from your eyes. What do you think, little miss?”

“I want Ursa to do it,” Katara answered quickly. 

Sokka stared at her as though she had spoken a foreign language. 

  
  
  


When he was freed from the fitting room and shown to the guest bedroom that he was occupying, Sokka finally untucked the bone necklace from his shirt. Alone, he could cherish what scraps remained of his home. 

The coats his mother had guided them through making themselves, with the furs she had hunted for during the warmer season, were laying on a dusty bed. He missed her more than ever as he looked at them. Their mother taught them to skin, to cure, to butcher, to take care of themselves. Their father was wise enough never to question her capability. For that, she used to say, he was lucky, and Sokka and Katara would try to hide their giggles from him.

Katara finally slipped through his door after a few minutes passed. She had pressed his hand and told him not to worry, that Ursa wanted to talk with her just a moment longer, and let him leave her alone. A deep red silk, spotted with a small orange crystal, was tied around her neck.

“Where is Mom’s necklace?” Sokka demanded, consumed again by a rage that wasn’t his. “Why are you wearing that?”

“Ursa gave it to me,” answered Katara timidly. She stroked the ribbon around her neck and turned away. “She’s being nice to us. Why are you so awful to her?”

“Because she’s  _ not _ our mom,” hissed Sokka. He had meanness in him that had brewed over weeks and weeks of sea journey, exacerbated by the constant crying and suffering that had walled them into their cell.

“I know that.”

“They took us away.”

She scoffed and threw herself at him, trying to shove him off of the rock. “I know that, Sokka! But Ursa said she’s going to help us.”

“Yeah?” Sokka returned the jab. She could tell that, angry as he was, he was still holding back. “She’s a liar! They're all liars, every stupid one of them, and I hate them. So should you.” He pointed his finger at her, as though she were any less a hostage than him. 

His sister was far too weary for anger. She had been so exhausted by despair that she coveted kindness like gold. If anyone, Fire Nation or not, would spare a sweetened word to her, it was merciful compared to the fate of those who had perished on the boat. Her eyes began to water, and her brother became a different boy.

As though there were anyone to catch him upsetting her anymore, he quickly tried hushing her up. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I take it back. But you just can’t let them think it’s okay. You can’t let them turn us  _ takungartut _ .”

  
“Sokka, we are  _ takungartut _ ,” she protested, sniffing. “We  _ are  _ the strangers here.”


	2. II

As the new children began to settle into his house, Zuko felt he was just as unknown as they were to his own family. Their arrival was eerily similar to the way Azula’s birth had outcast him. He was folded up small enough in his parents’ minds to be hidden in Katara and Sokka’s shadows. 

Katara was as sweet as the honeyed lemon slices that were served with tea. There was a sting beneath that was visible under her sincerity. Sokka only communicated through his sister, often refusing to speak to anyone at all if she wasn’t in the room. Zuko’s mother reminded him time and time again that Katara and Sokka would need time - years, even - to mold themselves into life with their family. No matter how many days they spent together, he still felt something thin and strong separating them. 

Despite the implication of  _ years _ , Zuko was certain that their presence would be temporary. They were being given a taste of the Palace life before they would have to be sent to a boarding school. There was no other explanation for housing them in the guest room that was reserved for Lu Ten’s visits. 

After the first few weeks of introductions, Katara and Sokka were found a place in the daily operation of the house. A party was hosted to welcome them, which they attended for half an hour before being too overwhelmed for guests. Mai and Ty Lee spent the whole evening pestering Zuko to tell them more about the South Pole kids. Even Mai, who seldom showed interest in others, dug at him for more details of their arrival. (Once they had concluded that he knew as little as Azula, they abandoned him for the rest of the night.)

By the second month, they were taking lessons with Tai Ran. She had separated them from Zuko and Azula and referred to their education as “remedial.” Then, by the fifth, they were joined again and became a single class of four. Other teachers occasionally stopped by and stole them away from play for an afternoon, sometimes an entire evening. 

Uncle took a trip home soon after gossip of Katara and Sokka’s adoption slipped past the Earth Kingdom’s defenses. Six months had passed since Zuko’s father returned from the South Pole. Zuko could mark the mast of his ship from as far as a mile away. He spent all of the day’s lesson peering into the distance toward the port. When Iroh came home, hours could pass before he would eventually make it to the palace. 

When he approached Zuko in the tea garden, Katara tried to fit into his shadow to hide. Lessons had well since finished, and the pair were examining the herb beds in search of weeds. Though he knew that she was particularly afraid of strangers, he ignored her fears and rushed into his Uncle’s arms for a hug, immediately pouring question after question onto him.

“Uncle, is your mission finished? Did you bring Lu Ten? Mom misses you, did you tell her you’re coming? How many places did you go?”

Uncle shook his head gently by the ponytail and laughed him out of the embrace, making the same joke he always did about his nephew growing taller while he himself grew wider. Then, his attention turned to the girl still watching him with glassy eyes. “Are you going to introduce your friend, Zuko? Old Tai Ran hasn’t knocked the manners out of your head, has she?”

Uncle’s teasing never embarrassed him the way his sister’s did. Though his face felt hot, he could not contain his excitement. “Katara, this is Uncle Iroh! He makes really bad jokes, but really good tea. She lives in Lu Ten’s room, Uncle! Her and her brother, Sokka.”

The old man’s eyes were as kind as ever. He knew much more about this girl than he could tell his nephew. “It’s very good to meet you, Katara. You have the loveliest name; are you from the North Pole?”

“The South Pole,” Katara answered glumly. Zuko observed with a lump in his throat. Since she had begun to play with him, he tossed and turned many a night over what it meant to be  _ neutralized _ .

Uncle always knew what to say to make someone smile. If there was one person too sad for it to work on, Zuko would think it was Katara. She spoke little and cried often. When Zuko’s mother was awake, Katara was clutching her sleeve or her skirts, refusing to speak to anyone else. She settled for his company while Ursa was bedridden.

“Then you have come much farther than I thought,” replied Iroh. He offered no condolences. “Do you like tea? I’ve just come from the Earth Kingdom; they grow the best tea leaves there.”

Her silence seemed to trouble him, so Zuko assumed his position as her communicator. As she became more and more involved with his family, he spoke for her to avoid the long pauses between her words. “She likes tea. But she’s only had the kind we grow here.”

“Well, I know just the thing, then. You two, get your siblings, and we can have a pot in the drawing room.”

“Will you wake up Mom?” Zuko blurted.

He was reaching an age that no longer coddled him, and he knew it. There was a time that his Uncle would have wrapped him in another hug and promised to do his best, maybe even returned with a little note from Ursa (or signed as her, which Zuko had begun to suspect of the past) apologizing for her condition. It was never the apology that Zuko was looking for. 

Now he was getting old enough that even Uncle Iroh could not ignore the fire in their window. “I’ll visit her, nephew,” he offered genuinely, “But I don't think she is well enough to join us today. I am sure you know what time of year it is.”

Until the words were spoken, he hadn't known. It only took him that second to remember, and when he did, his stomach churned with guilt. He obeyed his uncle without a further question, turning on his heel and bounding toward the garden door that led into their courtyard. He did not look back, but soon heard Katara’s sandals paddling the ground as she followed him. He slowed himself to a walk once they were inside. 

“Your uncle is nice,” Katara said behind him. When he did not reply, she continued. “Who is Lu Ten?”

Zuko was surprised to hear her start a conversation. Frayed as his nerves were, he accepted it. “Lu Ten is my cousin. Iroh’s his dad.”

She quickened her pace to speak to him more easily. She seemed confused by the drastic change in his mood. “I didn't know we were in someone's room.”

“Well, it's not his, exactly. It's a guest room. It's the one he uses when he comes home. But he hasn't been home in a long time.” Explaining this eased his mind, if only distracting him a moment. “It's okay, you and Sokka can still be in there. Lu Ten is  _ really  _ cool, I don't think he minds.”

“Cool?” She inquired, unsure of the word. 

“Yeah, cool. It means he’s fun, I guess. And nice. And, well, he’s done all sorts of amazing things.” Zuko fell to rambling easily with her. It was increasingly difficult to find people that would listen to him without interrupting in his home. He began to recall tales of his cousin’s childhood that he had collected throughout the years, embellishing certain details, answering Katara’s questions as they surfaced. They swept through the turns in their house as they spoke, until they had wound themselves around to the front door. 

Last they had seen Sokka, he was sitting on the wooden porch that skirted the edges of the building, hunkered over his unfinished writing lesson. Character writing came surprisingly easy to Katara -- in just the handful of months she had been learning, she was already caught up with Zuko and Azula, and had been introduced to calligraphy style by Tai Ran, who was more than pleased to have a well-mannered, steady-handed student around. Sokka did not absorb it with the same intense pace as his sister. Zuko would sometimes reach over his block and write an answer for him while Tai Ran’s back was turned, much to Katara’s scolding. But Sokka grew frustrated with them easily and always demanded to do it himself.

In the place that he had been sitting, Zuko and Katara found his unfinished set of sentences and brushes. Katara muttered furiously under her breath at the ink being left to dry out, and stooped to cork the bottle. 

“Sink your feet,” came Azula’s commanding voice from a distance. Zuko recognized the tone and turned quickly to see her silhouette a small ways down the stone path that led to the palace. In her hand shone something waxy red. Beyond the shape of her was Sokka, partially blocked from view by the back of her head.

“Azula!” He shouted, face falling. Katara flinched and looked up from the pan of water she was cleaning the brushes in. “Azula, stop it!”

Sokka looked over at him too, and Zuko felt as though he was a bug being burned under a spyglass. In his hand, Zuko recognized Azula’s sword. She showed no sign that she could even hear her brother. 

“What are they doing?” Katara asked, frantic. She stood again and repeated herself when he didn't answer. 

Azula lit the apple in her hand like a lantern, raising it high above her head. Then she twisted her arm, reeled it back, and pelted the fruit at Sokka in full force. A small puff of fire followed it. Katara cried out and raised her hands in front of her, almost as if she had been the target all along, and could bend the flames away if she was quick enough. 

Sokka had the handle of the sword cocked to his side, elbows jutting sharply. He was clearly taken aback at the fire -- Zuko immediately suspected that Azula hadn’t told him she planned to light it. But his reflex did not falter, and perfectly in time, he made a sweep with his blade and cut the fireball in two. His feet took him back a few paces to avoid the remains of the apple and the burst of fire that tailed it. 

“Good job!” Azula yelled at him, holding out a thumbs up. Hearing her approval made Zuko wrinkle his nose, almost wishing that Sokka had taken a dive. “We should find something bigger!”

“No!” Katara yelped, hands on her hips. Tears were streaming from her eyes, but she appeared determined to stand her ground. “Sokka, you’re going to get hurt! Stop that!”

Though Azula whined about wanting to test another fruit, Sokka heeded his sister’s words. As he approached her and Zuko, he looked dismayed that their game had been interrupted. He passed Azula her sword, thanked her for letting him use it, and told her it was a good weapon (“ _ Obviously _ ,” she agreed). When he made it to the porch, Katara zoomed past Zuko to inspect him for injury, brows furrowed. They murmured together in the language that Zuko pretended not to hear. Sokka pulled his sleeve over his knuckles and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Uncle Iroh is home,” Zuko announced, when Azula was finally within earshot. The soft conversation between Sokka and Katara ceased.

“So?” She shot back. “I was having  _ fun _ . That game is always so boring with you, Zuko, you miss it every time.” She pouted, but her eyes were sharp and pleased with herself.

“He wants us all to have tea together in Mom’s studio,” Zuko told her, poking a chunk of hair loose from her bun as revenge. She scoffed and tried to swat his hand away, turning to fix it. 

In a silent, lopsided formation, they made their way inside. Sokka abandoned his writing assignment yet again, though Azula advised him not to get on Tai Ran’s bad graces. In a single afternoon, Zuko felt she paid him more mind than she typically paid her brother in a week. She walked to his left, Katara closely at his side, with Zuko dragging behind like a broken wheel. 

  
  


A sake bottle on the bedside table broke Iroh’s heart, but the sight of his sister-in-law mended the wound. It was painful to watch her wither away at the hands of his own brother, but always a joy to see her. Ozai had become a separate entity altogether in the last decade, but even more gut wrenching than the transformation was the memory of him, a young man with flowers in his hand, asking Iroh if he thought Ursa would return his affection. To the day, Iroh regretted encouraging him.

She stirred and met his gaze with cloudy eyes. Though she feigned sleep for her children, he knew that she often ignored that measure of bedrest. She laid sometimes as though she were a bedsheet herself, flat and unmoving as the blankets she lived under. It would not startle him to know that she often stayed up for days on end, sleeping only when she was finally too exhausted to prop her eyes open.

“Iroh,” she said softly, with no surprise. He invited himself to the side of her bed that she was farthest from, laying his flowers careful as he took a seat. He had been so entangled in Ba Sing Se that only a handful of flowers were kept in the bundle, and were beginning to wilt already due to the difficulties of the sea voyage. A young lotus bloom made the eye of the bouquet. She turned over onto her side to look at them. 

“I didn’t have a chance to write,” he admitted, providing a smile for her, for he knew one would be too heavy for her lips at that time. “I had to visit, though. I heard of Katara and Sokka.”

Ursa pressed her face into her pillow, making the smallest noise of acknowledgement. 

“There are things you don’t know about that raid,” He continued, “Things even I don’t know. But what I do know is very dangerous, Ursa. You have to protect them.” He took one of her hands, rubbing warmth into her cold fingers. “Protect Katara,” he emphasized, squeezing her knuckles, “She is going to have a hard life ahead of her.”

“I can’t protect them,” she told him lifelessly. Her voice was rampant with apathy. It was the condition that moved her tongue and teeth, but Iroh could not help the surge of urgency that overtook him. Folded into the paper securing her flowers was a letter with the rest of the story, for her to read when she was in a better frame of mind. 

He simply said, “You have to,” and kissed the back of her hand. “You do not see it now, but I’m afraid you have to.”

“She would have turned two,” was Ursa’s reply. It was unrelated and related all at once. “Would they have ever met her?”

After the carnage Iroh had found in war, he believed himself to be a healed person. One who had suffered as all must and could now dedicate himself to alleviating the burdens of others. But the death of a child was not comprehensible to him -- not yet. The loss of his niece was the one trauma he did not know how to stomach. He had never gotten a chance to see what the baby looked like until it came time to hang her chubby-cheeked portrait for the memorial.

He could not bring himself to answer her question. He allowed her hand to fall.

  
  


Why a firebender would need a stove for tea, Katara still could not understand. At tea time each day, the water was heated by an iron wood stove jammed into the corner of Ursa’s art room. It looked out of place in combination with the desks, easels, wood blocks, and pale cabinets that filled the rest of the space. 

Though it was the only room Ursa occupied when she was out of bed, she did not use it for its purpose. In half of a year, not a single new painting had been hung. Katara had the sneaking impression that it was now only a room for her to hide from her husband in. 

She had nightmares about Ozai so often that he became the monster of her own reality. She remembered the iron grip he excised on her wrist as he led her and Sokka into his home for the first time, how she could feel his fingers crush her even through her thick layers. With that same grip, he had yanked her by the braid, kicking and screaming, out of the salmon barrel that Gran Gran ushered her and Sokka into when the black snow fell. With that same grip, he had thrown her into a cell on the boat. It was now a claw sunk into her life that she could not pry loose.

It was unfathomable that Ursa -- her only savior, aside from her brother -- was married to the very man that had destroyed everything she knew. In Katara’s mind, their marriage must have been arranged. How could a woman so beautiful, so kind, belong with a man like that? It was the type of marriage her mother and the village women would have put a stop to by force. 

She counted it lucky that the only times she and Sokka were made to face the Admiral were the important ceremonies held in the Firelord’s chamber. Occasionally, they would accompany Zuko and Azula at his side. Sokka to Zuko’s left, Katara to Azula’s right. They were always escorted out of the room as soon as it came time to speak of the war.

All her life, Katara had heard that Firelord Azulon was the face of the conflict. The elders of her tribe would periodically inform the town of the Fire Nation’s expansion (she could clearly recall the day that she heard Omashu, her dream city, had been occupied by firebenders). Always, Azulon’s name prefaced the horrors. He was supposedly the puppetmaster of the war, but Katara possessed a wisdom that many world leaders would treasure; she knew it could not be so. Firelord Azulon was merely a bitter old man compared to his youngest son. No one worked harder than Ozai did to protect that illusion.

Even Ozai’s brother was so strangely unlike him that it frightened Katara more. It meant that Ozai’s rage was not the product of his environment, nor the cause of it. Iroh was mild and gracious in comparison. The shadow on their family was cast by the Fire Throne.

In the studio, Zuko was recalling tales of cousin Lu Ten once again, now combated by Azula, who had stories of her own to share. He took it upon himself to begin boiling the water. Sokka was moving the board game that they had played over breakfast, careful not to disturb the pieces in any way, so that they could resume before bed. Katara was clearing the rest of the clutter from the only table big enough for five.

“--He did not!” Azula cut into Zuko’s sentence, shaking her head furiously. “He  _ definitely _ got caught, Zuko, he just wants you to think he got away with it.”

“But it’s cool even if he got caught,” Katara interjected. The look she received was so sour, she averted her eyes, cheeks turning pink. Azula never seemed quite fond of anyone who sided with Zuko, even in the slightest of qualms.

Before a fight could ensue, the door slid open, and Iroh entered the room with bright spirits in his eyes. He radiated a warmth that, shy as she was, Katara craved desperately. Adults in the royal house were more often strict than kindred, and treated the children impersonally. She felt lucky not to be bombarded with questions about the South Pole by a stranger. Azula, who had seemed so indifferent about his arrival in the front yard, flocked to his side at once. He greeted her with the same gusto as he had shown Zuko in the garden.

“Such a heavy sack of apples!” He exclaimed, sweeping her into his arms and heaving her a few steps forward. “I just might fall over!” He teetered from one foot to the other as though she were weighing him terribly off-balance.

“Uncle, I’m not heavy!” She protested, but giggled and did not refuse the gesture. Katara was sure it was the first time she had seen Azula so giddy. She couldn’t help a smile peeling at her face.

“But you have certainly grown,” Iroh noted, setting her back on her feet beside the table. “I have to start coming home more, you’ll be taller than me before you know it.” He rested a hand on her shoulder and then sent his smile to Sokka, who had taken to watching the stove with Zuko. “You must be the young man I’ve heard so much about. Sokka is your name, isn’t it?”

He nodded, but kept his distance. Katara came to miss the loud-mouthed brother that she had been so annoyed with at home. There were many times in the village that she had asked the spirits to make him quieter. Now that her wish had been granted, she would beg them to do the opposite, if she could.

“That’s a good name,” Iroh concluded with a nod. From what Zuko told of his travels, Katara understood that he had learned names from all around the world. “Always keep that with you.”

Katara and Sokka were quiet as Iroh reacquainted with his niece and nephew. They had months to catch up on, she came to realize, and at the same time, recognized that she had been living in the Fire Nation for half of a year already. When the water came to a boil, Iroh motioned for them all to follow as he produced a green pouch from his uniform jacket. It was tied by a drawstring of golden looking silk, and an Earth Kingdom seal was embroidered on its center about the size of a lemon slice.

The tea leaves had a strong enough smell that Katara caught it as soon as the bag was opened. She barely recognized the material it was made from, but her fingers itched to feel it. She asked meekly if she could, fearing her question to be rude. Before it was the South Pole she yearned for, her daydreams were filled with Earth Kingdom pavilions and marketplaces.

“Well, this one is almost empty,” Iroh answered, beginning to pinch the leaves into the pot with great care, “So, once we have our tea, it’s all yours.”

True to his word, he passed it to her once he had poured the water into the clay pot. She swiped her fingers over the golden thread, feeling the twisted bumps of silk, and rubbed the green cloth between her fingers. She knew immediately it was velvet -- she had only seen it once in the village, and in passing several times on the beautiful gowns and ties worn by guests in the palace. Once she made the identification, she was all the more delighted that Iroh would give it to her.

Without yet knowing, Katara was beginning a collection of many colors. Folded tightly and tucked beneath her mattress were her tribal clothes, her mother’s necklace fastened around one of the wooden planks under her bed so that even the housekeepers could not find it. She used the pale colors and cool tones to soothe herself in the worst of her night terrors. The warm spread of the Fire Nation, her yellows, reds, and blazing oranges, were the next addition. Soon, more and more shards of the Earth Kingdom would fall into her hands. 

  
  


In the first two years of his relocation, Sokka polished and practiced a speech to the Fire Lord every night before he drifted to sleep. It was brief, but powerful, and became a mantra in his young mind. He dreamed of delivering it as they freed themselves. His captors could paint him red and take his home away, but they would never erase the spirit in him. They would never understand that his ways were older than the Fire Throne itself.

“We are the last warriors of the Southern Water Tribe,” he would say. Katara would be at his side. “You burned our village and took away our family. You have our land, but you will never destroy us.”

He never would get to give it. As the years smoothed his edges, his dreams of sticking it to the Firelord collected dust. The Fire Nation was well prepared against the reckless. A day did not pass that he did not test another angle of escape. He amassed information about the palace, the house, the exits and entrances, ways in and out of the island. He observed the frequency of ships arriving and memorized how the passing of the seasons affected it. Even as he was forced to wear a civil mask, he harbored a deep animosity for anyone who identified with the Fire Nation. He ached for the solace of ice and snow.

He learned that he could not remain childish if he wanted to bring his sister home safely. He matured so rapidly that it appeared a new boy had taken root in his shoes. Every free moment of his was spent on the plan. As they were educated more and more in lessons, he discovered the atrocities that had not made it to the South Pole by way of word, before he was taken. The teachers regaled these stories with pride, telling of villages conquered and borders vanquished, but it haunted Sokka to sleep at the underbelly of that beast every night. He was alive at the mercy of bloody hands.

Katara’s bending grew stronger in the dark. Sokka tried to prevent her from practicing when he could. She said he would never understand what it was like, repressing something so powerful. She later said sorry. 

Sokka was sure he had never truly been angry at her in his life. 

Ursa took a shining to his sister that brightened as she grew. He eventually came over his aversion to her care, but kept his distance. Zuko, strange and quiet as Katara, became a permanent fixture at her side, which isolated Sokka further. When the solitude was too much to bear, he resolved to make peace with Ursa’s children. As soon as Zuko and Azula began their lessons with the master swordsman, Sokka begged to receive training. Ursa scrounged long and hard for Ozai’s approval. 

Sokka was twelve when he finally began the class. Zuko had dropped his lessons early on to learn from his Uncle, who came to stay at the house more and more frequently in the second year. Azula, who had previously only ever sought his company to throw things at his head, became his sparring partner.

Something quite unlike a friendship, but an attachment, formed from the situation. Their master observed with an entertained glint in his eye. It was difficult to tell whose side it stemmed from. Sokka was a tribal boy in the Royal house, furious no doubt at the Fire Throne, and the Firelord’s Granddaughter could be seen, on occasion, latched onto his sleeve with a menacing smile. At social functions with the noble families, Sokka linked his arm with hers as if to chain himself to a ship with direction. Her friends teased and sang about her new “Water Prince” boyfriend. 

Ty Lee, who showed an adoration for Azula bizarre to Sokka, once asked him if he was betrothed to her in a peace treaty. He stared at her with such a hot coal in his stomach that he thought he’d burp smoke. Though he spoke not a word, the darkness in his gaze jarred Ty Lee. She shifted uncomfortably and then excused herself to the snack table.

Azula observed the exchange with a sparkle in her eye. She looked flattered in an odd way. The next time they passed Ty Lee, Azula dumped the contents of her drink down the front of the girl’s dress, burnt the wooden cup to a crisp in her hand, and flicked the ashes her way, too. Then yanked Sokka along as though they were wanted fugitives escaping the crowd. 

After they made clear of the party guests, hidden away in an empty corner of a hallway, both unleashed their laughter. Sokka was equally frightened and filled with joy that she had defended him. With no one else to encourage his anger, he was dazzled by Azula, and decided in that moment to glue himself to her. For the rest of the evening, they passed Ty Lee with wide grins and quietly discussed the affairs and failures of the aristocrats in the room. Perhaps the strongest connecting force between them was the knowledge beyond their years of the way their world operated. 

Regardless of how or why this bond was created, it lasted; though she never stared too closely in the direction he came from. They spoke little when they were not teasing the other children of the upper class.

Mai and Ty Lee were common playmates of Azula’s. Sokka was unable to wrap his head around the distance between her and her own brother. While Katara and Zuko shadowed Ursa or disappeared into the gardens, Azula and her friends would wander the property in search of any means to pass the time, never seeking them out for anything less than an argument. 

Fire Nation families did not cook together. They did not even eat together in the same room, unless the occasion was special. If Azula wanted, and she often did, she could spend an entire day without crossing the same hallway as her brother. Her and Katara still behaved as strangers.

Even after the incident at the party, Ty Lee was kind to Sokka. The next time he saw her, she acted as though nothing had happened. Mai was much like Azula, and approved of him only because he could match her bitterness at times. The four were soon a common cluster. Though he had consigned himself to despising any Fire Nation he met, it was a relief to have a group of friends. The smallest part of him craved a childhood, even in the prison he felt himself trapped in.

The way he fastened himself to Azula was unlike the way he protected Katara. He had witnessed firsthand that the Fire Princess needed no looking after. It was more that they exchanged gestures of an unspoken accord. When children in the noble village prodded at Sokka’s heritage, Azula would dole out ferocious retribution. If Azula was feeling particularly spiteful towards Mai and Ty Lee, Sokka would put his guilt aside to terrorize them with her. They both suffered the same world against them without ever realizing it. 

Azula’s cousin came home on a brief furlough in the winter of the second year, and Lu Ten was Sokka’s favorite by far.

In the Fire Nation, snow fell only during the coldest few weeks of the season. Sokka and Katara could not be kept inside, much to the distress of Tai Ran. The cold worsened Ursa’s condition, and their tutor became their primary caretaker, when Iroh was not around to play games with them. 

“You need a coat!” She insisted, fussing with Katara’s collar, trying to button it up to her chin. “You’ll catch death out here! Oh, at least push down your sleeves!” It was warm enough for them to wear their typical play clothes, unlike the children who were so accustomed to sunny weather.

Azula and Zuko were bundled in jackets that looked almost as thick as real parkas, and still they were shivering. Katara squirmed from her teacher's grasp and then bent low to scoop a pile of snow into her bare hands. Tai Ran griped about frostbite, but finally threw her hands in frustration and retreated inside, hollering that if any of them were to be found frozen in the morning, she would hear no blubbering about it. 

The first snowball was launched at Azula. She gasped, enraged, eyes wide in disbelief at Katara, who was typically too afraid of angering her to speak, but now was hunched over in laughter after pelting her square in the face. Sokka tried with all his might, but he couldn’t help a chuckle, and that was enough to set Azula off. She squatted and began assembling her arsenal, but the mittens her hands were balled in were slow at packing the snow. 

The teams fell naturally. Katara was hit next, not quick enough to dodge it as she was shaping more snowballs of her own, and then she threw her lopsided handful too far to the left and caught Sokka. Soon, they were chasing each other around the courtyard, shrieking as they were hit, howling when the snow dripped down into their clothes, laughing when one sister or brother toppled over or caught a face full of mush. Sokka watched Katara carefully as she threw, even when he was the target. In the back of his mind, he feared she might lose care enough to waterbend in front of the royal kids. 

Eventually, even their thick skin could not protect them, and Sokka was so frozen that he persuaded Azula to declare a truce. They were all completely soaked, pink nosed with chattering teeth. Katara and Sokka’s bare hands were bright red and numb. On feet they could not feel, they trudged inside and split off in new teams to seek warm clothes and blankets. Azula and Zuko’s rooms were close to Ursa’s, on the western wing of the house. The guest bedrooms were on the opposite side. Sokka had been offered his own room before, but refused when Katara tearfully admitted she was afraid to sleep alone. 

When Sokka slid their door open, they discovered a stranger in their room. His back was to them, broad shouldered and straight, but he turned when he heard them enter. It appeared he had been observing the drawings that were tacked upon the wall in the space between Katara and Sokka’s beds. Sokka opened his mouth to speak, but Katara was quicker to it.

“Are you Lu Ten?” She asked. His brows furrowed, but he nodded. 

“Are these yours?” He motioned to the sheets of paper in front of him. 

“Sokka did them.” Katara pointed at him. “He’s Sokka.”

When Lu Ten grinned, Sokka could clearly see that Iroh was his father. Their eyes had the same inviting glint. Though a young man, his uniform was decorated with ranks and honors that Sokka could vaguely recognize from the various soldiers he had met in the palace.

“I like your art, Sokka,” Lu Ten said. He felt his face grow hot and did not respond. It seemed that Katara and him had switched places entirely. “Keep doing it your way. Much better than the portraits we usually hang around here.”

Sokka was absolutely at a loss for words. He chewed the inside of his cheek and tried to draw a thank you from his throat. Instead, Katara spoke yet again to introduce herself. Lu Ten, like Iroh, had heard of his family’s South Pole charges long before he came to be in the same room as them. 

At this point, Sokka was filtering through all of the times that Zuko and Azula had spoken of their cousin, impressing himself yet again with the idea of his adventures wreaking havoc on the palace staff. And Lu Ten -- who flooded the kitchen on the day of the Firelord’s birthday, who rode the railing of the staircases like a wooden unagi (and then crashed into a cabinet of fine porcelain), who was the youngest warrior so far to win a tournament of blades in Fire Nation history -- liked his art. 

It was irrelevant, possibly just a polite compliment, but it churned his stomach something fierce.

“Zuko said that you wouldn’t mind us staying in here,” Katara was saying, looking unsure to be carrying the conversation. “It’s been our room since we came.”

“Well, you’ll certainly make more use of it than I will,” Lu Ten agreed. “Don’t worry, there are plenty of empty beds here. I’ll find a room.”

“We could move if you want,” blurted Sokka, “If you want to stay in your room while you’re home.” 

Lu Ten laughed and waved his hand at him. “That’s alright, little man. I still have my cousins to surprise before I rest. Tell you what, I’ll take you up on it next time I come home.” The siblings parted as he began to leave the room, allowing him a path to the doorway. He offered them each his hand as he passed, and shook with a firm grip. “Deal?”

“Deal,” echoed Sokka and Katara. 

In a year’s time, that pact would be broken, and Sokka’s blooming heart along with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y es i included a lil tiny crush on lu ten for sokka because,, as a young boy i got dumb crushes on Any tall boy i met,,,  
> WHEW it took a while to write this one! I have a better outline for the rest of the story now, but when I began this chapter I was mostly freehanding and trying to make it all fit. I do my own proofreading so if there are plot holes you may shoot me on sight   
> i be like FORESHADOW FORESHADOW FORESHADOW


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> writing child drama is actually hilarious and fun. sorry this took so long i've been coping

The morning after his arrival, Lu Ten was absent from the house. He had interrupted Tai Ran’s lesson to bid his cousins and new little friends farewell, promising their pouting faces that he would be home before the sun set, and that he needed some fresh air. Despite their begging, he went alone.

The weather was so warm that he had to pause and shed his layers as soon as he started up his first hill. Embarrassed by his oversight, he packed them away with haste, folded squarely and perfectly, as though there was a line he was holding up. A mistake like that in Ba Sing Se could have cost someone a life. He tried to remember what it was to take a walk, and not to march. When he was younger, and Iroh took him up this trail to ambush the sunrise, he saw a mountain ahead. Looking onto their beaten old path, he saw vantage points. Cover. Defense. There was no way to cleave the war from his mind, even when he put it behind him. If he stopped long enough to think, he could still hear it waging hundreds of miles away.

He wasn’t ready to face his cousins. Truthfully, he could afford to come home much more often than he did. But he never knew how to act in front of his family. Even his father was impossible to understand at times. He was ashamed that he could not meet their excitement. He would give anything to rant with Azula’s fervor, or regale them with his father’s good humor. It could not be the same war in the legends that Lu Ten was fighting. There was nothing legendary about the things he had seen.

  
  
  


Tai Ran, apparently, was another member of the household that held Lu Ten in high regards. Sokka watched perplexed as he had cut her off -- in the middle of her sentence -- to say goodbye for the morning. Not so much as wagging a finger at him, she had simply wished him a safe journey, and offered to pack him a lunch before he left. He thanked her, but refused. 

“You all could learn a thing or two,” she huffed, “Lu Ten is a good boy! I took care of his lessons myself, before you two were born. Well, I suppose, before the  _ four _ of you were born.” She turned back to the board and continued to copy her notes as she spoke. “He liked to cause a ruckus, of course, but he was the sweetest little thing, and he was a great help, mind you!”

As she began her next harangue, Lu Ten put his hands on his hips and moved his mouth as though her voice was his own, imitating her stern expression with the exception of a fox-antelope grin that stretched ear to ear. Even Katara was nearly bursting with giggles, bent over her paper with a hand over her mouth to stifle an outburst.

“--And did it kill you to lend me a hand, Lu Ten?”

“No, ma’am,” Lu Ten answered, spinning on his heel, “I must be going, but don’t stop on account of me! Have a good lesson!”

And even though he had left without being dismissed, Tai Ran made no notice. Lu Ten was invincible.

Katara was working on her calligraphy after their history and math were finished for the day. She always volunteered for extra assignments, even though it got on Sokka’s nerves. There was no real reason to resent her, he knew, but he wished that she were as defiant as him. 

Perhaps it was their cousin visiting, or perhaps it was just that wonderful of a day, but Azula and Zuko were perfectly content playing games in the art studio. The previous night, after Lu Ten surprised them, Sokka suspected, they had begun a game of checkers, and now returned to their unfinished board, chatting excitedly about all of the things they had to do with Lu Ten before he left again. Sokka took a seat beside Azula, unsure of what to do with himself, and watched them play.

“Ty Lee used to have the biggest crush on Lu Ten,” Azula snickered, “She asked Mom to see his baby portrait one time, after he first left. She used to cry and mope like she was a widow.”

“Oh, I remember that,” Zuko wrinkled his nose. “She called me ‘cousin-in-law’ for two years.”

“Isn’t that Lu Ten?” Sokka pointed to the line of paintings that were framed between two windows, right above the table that the incense was burnt on. 

There were four, each the same size, signed by Ursa. The first three were undoubtedly, from left to right, Ozai, Zuko, and Azula. Ozai was painted smiling, a much younger man, with a wrap of flowers in his hand. Except for the mouth, it looked just like him. Ursa’s hand was steady and graceful, and Sokka thought the eyes in her paintings were lively enough to stare back at him. Zuko and Azula’s baby portraits were distinguishable only by elimination-- their faces were strikingly similar, but it would only make sense for Zuko’s to come before his younger sister’s. Sokka had often wondered about the third baby, but never found an appropriate time to ask. Ursa’s time was precious to the children, and he didn’t like to waste it when she made Katara smile so much.

But he had said something wrong. Even when he nudged her side, Azula was quiet, and Zuko had to speak up for her. 

“That’s Kiyi,” he said, “Our sister.”

Sokka could sense that he had plucked a very painful nerve, just by the sadness in his voice. He had grown accustomed to picking on Zuko at Azula’s side, but wished more than anything that he could take his question back. He kept his mouth closed. It was too late to move on, but he made himself listen carefully.

“She was born when Azula was six. I was eight. But she was very sick when she was a baby. And when she got sick, Mom became sick, too.” Zuko was pulling his sleeves over his knuckles as he spoke, eyes downcast. “Mom couldn’t make milk for her, but Kiyi wouldn’t eat anything else. Even the healer could barely make her. She died soon after this was painted.”

Azula felt the need to translate the tragedy for him. “I made the little kimono for her. Like you made a kusp-a for Katara.”

“Kuspuk,” Sokka clarified. Aside from the correction, he didn’t know what to offer. He was surprised that she had even remembered hearing the story, because for the life of him, he couldn’t remember telling it. “Kiyi made your mom sick?”

“Heartsick,” Azula told him sadly. “That’s what Uncle Iroh says. She misses Kiyi so much that her heart is tired of everything.”

It all came together on the table right in front of him. There never was a condition, not one that a healer could tend. Ursa was bedridden by grief. Though Sokka could not understand being a mother, he did know what it was to lose one. It was a small part of himself dying with her. Kiyi must have held a very large piece of Ursa’s heart before she passed away, because she did not leave much behind at all for her brother and sister. 

In the moment, he forgot that he was speaking to royal children at all. It mattered none that they were Fire Nation. He put his arm around Azula and pressed her into half of a hug, eyes fixed on Kiyi’s painting.

  
  


Lu Ten’s voice and the wrinkle in his eyes were different than the last time Azula had seen him. He sounded almost like her mother, weary and splitting apart at the seams, as if stretched too thin around his own body. He was still a young man, but his greyness was beginning to match Iroh’s. She watched, silently, as he withdrew from his cousins during his last trip home.

It began with his walk in the morning. The first day, she had supposed, he was too accustomed to his duties to spend a proper minute relaxing. When her father returned home to visit, he slept in a hard bed and awoke before sunrise as though he were still on call for battle. She occasionally ventured to his cot in the middle of the night and laid beside it on the floor. But Lu Ten was not like her father at all. He refused to speak of the war, and instead told her inane stories about the beautiful girls of Ba Sing Se and the wonderful things he had seen in the Earth Kingdom. She wanted the truth, to hear what Lu Ten had seen, to understand what it was to fight for her nation before she would begin to do so herself. His reluctance to discuss military business buried a pit in her stomach.

Lu Ten walked alone every morning, and took his time returning to the house. Zuko and Sokka waited for him at the gate after lessons. Azula tried prying her friend away, but even Katara could not convince her brother to abandon his post. The boys wanted nothing more than to hoard Lu Ten’s attention for themselves. She watched with steam jetting from her ears as her brother and her only friend laughed and breezed without her, frozen in that single spot, as though it was their duty. 

Azula didn’t know what to do with Katara. Quite frankly, the girl scared her. Though she was quiet and cold, it felt as though there was a flood constantly pressing behind her eyes. She was much less frail and shy than when she had first arrived; in those days, Azula avoided even looking into her eyes for fear of upsetting her further. Sokka and Zuko both possessed a peculiar ability to calm her, but Azula had been left out of the loop. 

But, there was something to be said about being outnumbered. With Lu Ten home, more than ever, Azula was tired of boys. After pulling fruitlessly at Sokka’s sleeve for the first three days, she finally resorted to seeking the company of his sister.

“Mai and Ty Lee are coming over,” Azula announced to her. They were tidying up the studio room to have guests, though she hadn’t exactly specified that the guests were hers. When the girls came to the house to play, she tried to keep them as far from her brother (and, by association, Katara) as possible. 

Katara said, “Oh,” but did not look up from the blanket she was folding. Her arms were just too short to hold it off of the ground. Azula shoved down her own nerves and took the other ends into her own hands to help. 

“Well, you should play with us,” she continued, scouring her brain for the words she was looking for. Her brother made this look so easy. “Nothing you’re doing looks very fun.”

Katara blinked at her. Azula sucked in a deep breath. All she could think was,  _ please, don’t cry, I don’t know what to do when you cry, don’t tell Mom I made you cry. _

Katara said, “That’s true. I’ll come.”

Azula had no idea what she passed time with while she was alone, or why she never really saw the other girl unless at Zuko or Sokka’s side. It was no matter; she was overjoyed that her invitation had worked. They folded the blanket together the long way, bumping hands as Katara took the corners to lay them on top of each other. Though she could have finished alone, Azula took the other side again and they repeated the process.

Katara insisted that making tea for guests was the polite thing to do. She watched the water as it boiled as though she was picking a painting apart stroke by stroke. Mai and Ty Lee eventually found their way into the drawing room, inviting themselves in without much of an announcement.

“Where’s Sokka?” Mai demanded. Azula felt a sting of jealousy, but Ty Lee interrupted before she could answer.

“I owe him one whole punch for his dumb idea!” She huffed, arms crossed. “I tied my sisters’ braids into a knot, and when my mom found out, she almost tied me up by mine!”

“He told you to do that?” Katara interrupted, a stern look in her eye. 

Ty Lee was not fazed by her presence and continued to babble about the plan Sokka had devised for her. Apparently, a hairbrush had been borrowed without permission, and her sisters were to blame for the offense. Azula tuned out by the time she was detailing her punishment. Tea commenced on schedule without another word from Katara -- if she was as taciturn as Mai, Azula thought, maybe they would accept her without question.

When they bored themselves of the studio, the girls took to the hallways in search of entertainment. Ty Lee provided an additional portion of the conversation to make up for Sokka’s absence. Unfortunately, when the updates of her life and gossip of the noble village ran dry, she turned to the camelephant in the room.

“So, Katara, we never see you much,” she was reaching for a response and did not receive one. “Except with Zuko.”

Azula did not miss the whip of Mai’s head or the hard coal in her eyes. If she didn’t know better, she would fear a burst of flames was imminent. But she had long since been aware of the nauseating crush that Mai had on her brother.

“Zuko is my best friend,” Katara explained, not perceiving the underlying intention. “And he thinks that Azula is too mean, so we play in the garden.”

Ty Lee and Mai both laughed, and when Mai was not overcome with jealousy as Azula expected, she realized that they were laughing at her. “Shut up!” She hissed, though it only made them giggle more fiercely. 

“Oh, but-- I don’t think that!” Katara’s hands raised defensively, shaking her palms. “Really, I don’t. That’s just what Zuko thinks. Sokka says you’re wonderful.”

Though Azula was delighted to hear that her friend thought well of her, it was Ty Lee’s turn to burn red. She scoffed and crossed her arms, no longer amused by Azula’s temper. With so many siblings, she had always been predisposed to envy -- Sokka’s arrival, she believed, had knocked her from her rightful place at Azula’s side.

“Well, maybe Zuko’s the smarter one,” she sneered, “Azula is always mean! He’s right. Bet that’s why Katara never plays with us.”

Azula herself could not have anticipated this reaction, and was too wounded to return the insult. She could feel that hot press at the corner of her eyes that meant tears were coming, and feared that speaking would only bring them sooner. Her father had warned her many times that crying in front of anyone was a display of weakness, one that was dangerous for a member of the Royal family. Before she spilled, she received an unexpected branch of support.

“You stop that!” Katara scolded. Her hands flew to her hips and she looked unusually tall. Her outburst came just in time, surprising Azula out of her spiral. Both of their guests looked shocked that she had dared to contradict them. “Azula is furthest along in our lessons, she’s plenty smart. And I don’t know why you came here if you’re just going to make fun of her.”

In just the same spotlight that had once shined on Sokka, Katara stood a stranger. This was not the girl that Azula had been living with, it could not be, for that girl was mild and teary, and did not speak against others. Yet there she was, looking Ty Lee in the eye so intensely that the other girl broke away from her gaze and stared down at the floor.

“Apologize,” she demanded. Azula was baffled all over again. She swallowed hard, tried to summon the courage to speak, but found that she had no idea what to say. 

She could refute Katara’s help and realign herself on Mai and Ty Lee’s side. That would be expected of her, she guessed. But she found, taking in Mai’s imploring glare, that she was as furious as Katara sounded. She wanted to hear the apology as well.

“Good for you, Azula,” bit Mai, her tone as unbothered as ever, “You finally found someone as bossy as you to play with.” In an aside to Ty Lee, she added, “Let’s look for Zuko,” and turned on her heel.

Before Azula could decide what to say, Katara took her arm and dragged her in the other direction. “Don't listen to them,” she was saying, “Bossy! Who’s bossy? I’ll show  _ them _ .” Azula guessed that they had upset her as well by her grumbling. 

“What are you going to do?” She asked, skeptical of the girl’s intentions. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Katara told her. “Someone better teach them to be nice!”

“And you're going to do that?”

“Yes!” She snapped, still hooked to Azula by the elbow. “You don't think I can?”

“I don't think you  _ would _ . Sokka says--”

“Sokka doesn’t know what he’s saying!” Katara insisted, and Azula clamped her mouth shut to avoid starting her on yet another warpath. “He doesn't know anything.”

Like a hostage waiting for a slip in her captor’s step, Azula decided that it was in her best interest to follow along. She allowed Katara to steer her through the halls until they came to the front entrance and skipped outside. 

For only a moment, when the daylight shone on her cheeks, she thought of Lu Ten. Her cousin was a dot somewhere upon the hills, shoulders probably burning under the high sun. Perhaps he was looking out at her exactly as she peered into the brush to spot him. She found it strange that after his month-long pursuit of Ba Sing Se, he did not want to sit and rest in the shade of his home or relax to the sound of his family. It felt almost as though he had not returned at all. 

Only as the gate came into view did Katara stop and finally explain herself. Sokka and Zuko could be seen where they stood, looking small from the distance. Zuko was perched on the beam of the gate on one foot, his ungrounded ankle tucked into the other knee, arms folded across his chest. It was a basic balancing form, nothing Azula would consider impressive. Sokka was also standing on the fence, though much more wobbly despite being on two legs, arms held out feebly to steady himself. 

“Mai and Ty Lee should be finding them any second,” Katara whispered, pulling Azula from her envy for a moment. She remembered how angry she had just been at her friends. “Now! There they are!”

Ty Lee walked as if on air, floating out across the porch like a petal in the wind. She was the most graceful person that Azula could imagine, much more than her gaggle of sisters combined. She skipped the grass and then jumped onto the edge of the fountain, mirroring the one-legged stance that Zuko held. Mai stood between her and the boys and sewed herself into their conversation.

Katara had an unreadable expression very suddenly. Her hands were clasped together, fingers resting on her lips, brows furrowed. “You know what would be really funny?” She asked finally. 

“What?” Azula humored her. 

She could see a glint in Katara’s eye that proved her relation to Sokka. It was exactly the mischievous look that he traded her to let her know there was a plan in its early stages. 

“If she fell in the fountain.”

The image made Azula smile. “But how--”

Inexplicably, as she was in the midst of asking, she heard a familiar shriek. She just barely caught the whip of Ty Lee’s braid and saw one of her legs fly up. As though pulled in by the ankle, she flopped backward into the fountain and landed with a remarkably high splash. Her and Katara were so busy laughing that she did not even think to question that Ty Lee emerged completely unscathed, aside from being soaked, staring into the fountain as though it had bitten her. Not a single drop fell on the ground.

  
  


Azula and Katara shared an interim friendship for the remainder of Lu Ten’s visit. Neither of their brothers would likely know they were spending the time together, and both sensing this, they made an agreement that their alliance was best kept a secret. Azula administered tough questions with much less hesitation than Zuko.

“Do you hate it here?” She had asked, point blank, as they lazed on the grass of the courtyard one afternoon. Flat on their backs, with shoulders and arms touching, the peace lilies loomed tall over them. “Sokka hates it here, I can tell. You, I’m not so sure.”

“I don’t hate anything,” Katara answered with confidence, but it was still not compelling. “Neither does he. That’s not our way.”

“But you don’t  _ have _ a way anymore,” she insisted, “How can you have a way if you don’t have a place?”

Azula had been reprimanded by her mother enough times to know that the South Pole was a sensitive subject. The slightest mention of where the houseguests came from would usually get her sent to bed early. It made her wonder, then, if she was meant to pretend that they were not foreign at all, and if this ignorance was expected from Sokka and Katara, as well. 

Katara turned her head on its side to look her in the eye, but she had no furrowed brow, no tears, no hands on her hips. “Your people take their way to any place they want, even that’s not theirs. Why shouldn’t I?”

_ Because our way is better _ , Azula had been taught. For the first time, she considered what that meant, and decided not to say it. Because Sokka had shown her to patch a hole in her clothes, whereas Tai Ran would have merely scolded her for ripping them; because he knew by the sun what time of the day it was and knew by the stars which direction he was facing; because he loved his sister more than any land in the world. 

And because, meeting Katara’s eyes, Azula could think of nothing she believed in to argue.

  
  


“You ate  _ salmon eggs _ ?” Zuko made a motion of hands around his throat to imitate choking. “How do you even get them?”

“Herring eggs.”

Much like Mai, it took prying to shake more than two words out of Sokka at a time. Zuko first saw this as a challenge; much like he had cracked the shell on Katara, he would poke the bear-dog enough times to do the same to her brother. Even as they watched as sentinels day in and out for Lu Ten’s coming and going, Sokka did little of the talking. Now, on the final day of the furlough, he undertook it as a great burden. He knew that Sokka was not dense, and yet felt as though he were speaking to stone.

“Well, how did you get them?” He persisted, despite a week’s worth of failed attempts. They had sharpened knives, whittled sticks, resharpened knives, skipped all the flat stones by the gate out of sight, counted planks, named clouds, and anything else to make their waiting bearable. Now there seemed to be nothing left.

“You lay branches on the bank.” Sokka was in the midst of weaving grass together with his fingers, sat cross legged on the ground. The sun had darkened both his and Katara’s skin since summer began, but more noticeable was a constant line of sunburn on his cheekbones and nose, since taking post at the gate. He was twisting the grass gently, not pulling even a strand from the ground. He added, miraculously to Zuko, “Hemlock. In the water, with rocks to keep them from drifting away. You pull them out once the fish lay eggs.”

“Where do you get branches?” This one was childish, but hearing him speak was a thrill. Zuko knew bits and pieces of their culture, but nothing that he learned in school or in war was anything like the stories he coaxed from Katara.

“From a tree, stupid.” He still did not look up from his project in the grass. “Where do you get yours?”

“No, I mean --  _ hey _ ,” Zuko scoffed, idly burning a wisp of grass he’d plucked between his fingers. “But the South Pole is all ice.”

Sokka looked up. He raised his brows, mouth still flat. “Are you serious?”

It was clear that his stance was not one to be defended, but feebly, he answered. “I thought it was always frozen there.”

“I wouldn’t be here if there was no land to take. In the summer you can see the bank. And we have trees.”

Zuko couldn’t help but ignore the unsettling comment. “Hemlock,” he supplied uselessly.

Like he was recalling old friends, Sokka closed his eyes and bathed his face in the sun as he listed them. “Spruce, tamarack, birch. Alder if you go to the mountains. And different kinds. White spruce and dark spruce, and sitka. Dark is best for paddles, it’s the toughest. Birch bark is as close as we have to paper. And good mushrooms grow on the birch. They look like big burns, like charcoal bubbles. Always near those, you find the tea root.”

“Tea root? What root?”

“T’lakak.”

“I've never heard of that.” Well versed in tea, thanks to his uncle, Zuko was delighted that they had broken to a common ground. He was unsure how else to interrupt such a powerful reminiscence. “Is that its real name?”

“Real as my name,” Sokka shrugged, “That's what we call it.” His eyes had opened, though he abandoned his braiding and now looked to Zuko with a renewed interest. “Not many people know now. Will you remember it?”

He couldn't see how it would matter, but he nodded without hesitation. This was a favor he could extend, a gesture in the face of something unforgivable. He didn't know as well as Sokka that there was no way to blame a child for war crimes, and felt he owed amends. “T’lakak. I’ll remember.”

  
  


By this point, Lu Ten had slipped past them and returned to the house without being noticed. He was sweating and fumbled with the gate, even cursed himself under his breath for the lack of finesse -- but neither of the boys seemed to hear him. Sokka was talking about trees, speaking in sentences for once. Even shaking and boiling beneath his clothes, Lu Ten knew better than to disturb that.

He had rested too long. He needed to return to his men. He was absolutely gripped with these ideas and packed as well as he could with clammy, idle hands. His love for nature was destroyed. The sound of brushing leaves alone, shrouded in the empty woods, had convinced him that he was being followed. He came to realize in the next month, laying in a ditch and soon-to-be-grave, that it was merely a gust of wind that chased him from home. In full gear, loaded with his supplies, he only stopped by Ursa’s room before sneaking out of the house completely. 

“Iroh?” She had mistaken them before. 

“I’m not that old, Auntie,” he took her cold hand and pressed it between his palms. “I just came to say goodbye.”

Despite not lifting her eyes from her blankets, she was the last of his family ever to see him.

  
  
  


Many days and leagues away, by light of the moon, a Fire Nation encampment was hollowly celebrating the closest their effort for Ba Sing Se had ever come. For the first time in his well-decorated career, Iroh turned in early. His men were tired and he was worn to the bone. Rather than travel through the night as he always had, he told his troop to find a drink and a bed -- to live whatever life they had left. It was only balm to their wounds of war, but their dampened reverie eased his conscience long enough for a full night’s sleep. There was a smoking trail of ash behind them.

This delay of one single day stopped his son from living to read his most recent letter, but he never could have known that. Lu Ten was ten miles from the nearest occupation on foot, and would have bled to death trying to reach help had his legs not been crushed beyond use. Wrenching as it might seem, the grief that knowing would have saved him in years of wondering was mountainous. 


End file.
